


modus operandi

by ezziesworld (orphan_account)



Series: The Depraved Adventures of Joker and You [2]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Biting, Breathplay, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Gentle J but also not really, Hair-pulling, Morning Sex, Rough Sex, Smut, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24013384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ezziesworld
Summary: In a moment of surreal morning intimacy, J is uncharacteristically gentle.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s), Joker (DCU)/Reader, Joker/You
Series: The Depraved Adventures of Joker and You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696144
Comments: 5
Kudos: 92





	modus operandi

**Author's Note:**

> modus operandi - a particular way or method of doing something, especially one that is characteristic or well-established.

It’s early morning, the sun beams through the slats of the blinds and streaks golden spears into the darkness of the room, landing over the slopes and curves of your bodies curled close, entangled limbs and soft breaths shared in the small space between your faces. The air feels stagnant with a sense of ethereal calmness that breaks apart pleasantly by the sound of passing cars in the distance and birds chirping faintly, a soft day-breaking symphony that instills a warmth in your chest. 

This is your favorite part of the day; where his mind is someplace distant, running in the background of a bare face that appears mangled and soft all at once. That sliver of golden light lies along his jaw, just below his nose and illuminating the protruding flesh of his scars.

You touch him, feather your fingers over the wishbone scar on his lower lip and travel along the plush flesh to the scar on his left. You trace the crevices, the gouge of it and follow the multiple spiderweb like cracks that splinter his skin with a sense of adoration. There is something tranquil about him, the stoic hardness of his features softened and eased and he looks young, almost _vulnerable_. You love seeing him like this, without the greasepaint, without the ensemble of infamously menacing purple and green, stripped down to bare skin--it’s intimate on an otherworldly level. 

You think about how you’re the only person who’s seen him like this. Trust doesn’t come easy to a man with his particular demons, with his nihilistic worldview and heavily guarded mind, but he trusts you and somehow that balances all the turmoil he’s put you through in your time together. It solidifies that reckless devotion you harbor for him, and you know it’s not right, it’s not healthy and every day spend by his side is the equivalent of sipping from a glass decanter labeled poison, but you’ve grown to like the taste of toxicity. It tastes like greasepaint, like the acrid burn of gasoline in the back of your throat, like that metallic piquancy that accompanies the obscure flavor of his mouth when he bites your lip and it splits between his teeth. 

He trusts you, and against all your self preserving instincts you trust him, too. 

You leave the scar and trace the hard line of his jaw, following it to his ear. There’s specks of residual paint there, and you smile, finding yourself endeared to the little detail as you trace the cusp and marvel at the hole in his lobe. He doesn’t strike you as the kind of man who would have an earring--but then again, there’s always something new to learn about him. You could spend the rest of your life watching him, observing and listening to every single world that falls from his mangled lips, try and piece together the man beneath it all and it would scarcely touch the surface. You liked that about him--his complexity is like a never ending puzzle that enraptures you. 

Brushing aside the stray green hairs that threaten to fall over his eyes, you follow your invisible path up the side of his face, over his temple and you watch his eyes as you do it; they move behind his closed lids and you wonder what he dreams of, selfishly hope that even in these rare moments of tranquility it’s your face he sees in his subconscious. You thread your fingers through his hair gently and take note of the dirty blonde at the roots, and then you’re looking at his face again; you’re counting the scatter of freckles that adorn his nose, admiring the length of his eyelashes, and you can’t help but lean forward and lightly graze your lips against his. 

His breath stays steady, languidly inhaling and exhaling through his nose, breathing against your lips as your hand leaves his hair and strays down the hardness of his torso. You’re wrapped up together, his arm is over your waist and your legs are caught with his, and you wonder how much you could get away with before he inevitably wakes at the physical contact. Your stomach does a somersault at the idea, your fingers slowly inching down his abdomen and you very carefully untangle your legs from his. You’re watching him intently now, analyzing the constant shift is his eyes as he dreams, the flutter of lashes and the subtle, barely there knit of his brows when you dip your fingers past the hem of his briefs to feel the coarse thatch of hair just beneath.

You absently pull your lower lip between your teeth, a wild concoction of mischief and lust making you feel giddy. Moving timidly, you instill an extra ounce of care in your motions as though you’re disarming a bomb that’s steadily ticking down to zero, and then you wrap your fingers around his cock. He’s soft in your hand, smooth and hot like velvet, and slowly, _tenderly_ you start stroking him. His fair brows furrow and he shifts slightly, a gruff huff of breath escapes his lips and you stop--then he stills, and you begin again. 

You’re torn between admiring his face and glancing down between your bodies as you feel him grow hard in your palm. He makes another noise, this one sounding closer to a moan, and you still once more, absently tear your attention from his face to look down--

“If you stop one more time, we’re gonna have _problems_.” 

You stiffen, you feel goosebumps erupt along your skin like someone poured a bucket of ice down your shirt, and you look up at his face with a trace of embarrassment, a small, sheepish smile curving your lips as you meet his unwavering gaze. He’s looking at you beneath a heavy, sleep riddled haze that makes your heart flutter. Never one to disappoint, you pick up your prior pace and stroke his cock beneath the confines of his briefs, and he closes his eyes and gives a low hum of approval. 

Just that small gesture-- _closing his eyes,_ is an enormous testament to the trust he so sparsely gives. There was a time when that didn’t happen, when he kept his full attention on you the entire time as though looking for any trace of hesitance or disgust or even _regret._ No, you don’t think you’ll ever regret him. You couldn’t imagine looking at his bare face, deceitfully vulnerable and young looking, and feeling even the slightest bit of disgust. Hesitance was thrown out the window what felt like ages ago, cast aside in favor of self destructive eagerness. 

“Good morning.” You playfully sing out, keeping your voice hushed just above a whisper as though any higher octave would shatter the surreal warmth that enveloped your bodies. 

“Just morning--we haven’t reached _good_ yet.” He huskily replies. He raises his arm from the slope of your waist and brings his palm down against your cheek, laying it there and absently swiping his thumb across your cheekbone. 

“I’m like your own--” You lean in, press your lips against his and smile, “ _personal_ ” another kiss, just off center of his mouth to touch his scars, “alarm clock.” You joke, he grunts in response as your fingers tighten just a bit more around his length. He shifts suddenly, extending his reach from your face to your shoulders as he rolls onto his back, pulling you halfway onto his stomach. 

“Do you have a silence button?” He counters, cracking one eye open as the sun streaks across his face. You snicker, tighten your fingers more and he gives a half laugh-half moan type of noise that innately draws your legs together, like you’ve been trained to it. 

“I do--but you’ll have to find it.” You reply, leaning down you place your chin against the hardness of his sternum, look up at him through your lashes and squeeze his cock again. It’s hard now, and the empowering thought that you’re able to do that to him crosses your mind, as it always does. 

He slowly licks his lower lip, looks at you with a lofty laziness that makes him seem unimpressed, and then he smiles. It’s soft, a subtle tug of the corners of his mouth in an expression that’s so incredibly rare on him it strikes you as foreign; genuine. It’s _genuine_. As though he can see the wonder that floods your mind, he’s quick to react. His hand pulls from your shoulder, brushes your hair back from your face and smoothly grabs a handful in a light tug, coaxing you further up his chest until your mouth is instinctively upon his. 

A rustle of movement has the blanket slipping off your body, the chill in the air rising goosebumps on your bare skin in combination to the excitement that never ceases to flood your senses in moments like these; where it’s just you two, bodies open and wanting, hands wandering and lips meeting in an embrace that’s fueled solely with the desire to feel the other. You savor it, run your hands down his chest then back up, bend yourself over him and let the cascade of your hair curtain the embrace of your lips as though shielding yourself from the call of the day, from the inevitable--when he leaves and you’re left with only the residual feel of his hands, ghost like in his absence but you cling to that sensation and will yourself to wait for his return. 

You try not to think about that, instead focusing on the way his hands feel _now._ He lays them palm flat against your thighs, the calloused roughness scratching just barely against your plush flesh as he glides them higher until he’s gripping the crescents of your hips. His nails like minuscule pinpricks as he absently pushes and pulls, guiding your absent mind and willing a smooth forward and backwards glide of your hips against his still clothed erection. 

You moan softly in his mouth, your hands wandering upwards over his broad chest, his strong neck and brushing along the sides of his face before diving into his hair where you grip him, pull his head back until it’s buried in the paint mottled pillow beneath him. Your grinding against him now, your bare cunt rubbing slick onto the smooth fabric of his briefs, dampening the only barrier between you two. 

You fall into a synchronous routine where your mouths meet in a steadily increasing fervor and your hands move on their own volition; from his hair, to his face, down his chest once more and further. Raising your hips, you pull the fabric down until his cock springs free, and you slowly ease yourself down and grind along the shaft of it, pressing it firm against his lower belly with a teasing roll of your waist. He groans in your mouth, the sound of it making your stomach flip with unabashed excitement. 

“Too early--” He begins, his words broken apart with the plethora of kisses you press against his mouth, “for games--” his voice drops, a low gravel and you smile against him, “ _sweetheart_.” And suddenly he’s moving, sitting himself up and forcefully shoving you off him where your back meets the cool linens and a rush of breath escapes your curved lips. You watch him in the early morning light; he drops his chin to his chest, works on ridding himself of his briefs and you can’t help but think about how stunning he looks in that moment. 

His skin is marred with old wounds, the raised flesh of scars that vary from long dashes to the occasional roundness of a bullet wound, muscles shifting and rolling beneath the mottled canvas as he moves. Wild green hair falls over his face and obscures him, but you can see the way he flicks his tongue out along his lower lip, sense the sudden urgency that vibrates in the air as he brings himself over you. You want to touch him again, ground yourself from the overwhelming rush of adoration that swells in your being as you admire him. 

You lay your hand against his sternum, feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat against solid bone and he touches you with a palm flat against your stomach. He’s looming above you, all encompassing and you level your gaze with his, shadowed beneath the veil of his hair in sharp contrast to the light that streaks across your bodies. You want to say something, but there is nothing to say, nothing that could encapsulate the wild concoction of emotions that brew in your head as you stare into the darkened depths of his eyes. Like he knows, he dips down and kisses you, open mouthed and breathy with a shift of his body. 

He pushes in, you gasp and wrap your arms around his neck, keep him close as he languidly sheathes himself in your tight heat, bottoming out with a low, pleasant hum. It’s at this point when things almost always take a turn; when he feels your body all around him, eager and vibrating with arousal and it fills him with a type of carnal desire to cast aside any tenderness in favor of fucking you _senseless_ \--but this time is different. This time, he keeps his mouth on yours, kisses you slowly like he’s savoring the taste of you and he rolls his hips, grinds himself against you and pushes himself deep. There’s a lack of friction, that salacious burn of being stretched over and over again replaced with a frustrating pressure that makes you whine in his mouth, your legs wrap around his waist and shamelessly you buck against him. 

“Looks like I, uh--” He breaks off with a startling thrust forward, keeping himself inside you and pushing further, like he’s trying to split you in half, “found that _silence_ button, hmm?” It’s goading, the smirk on his lips vexes you, but more so does the ache of having him stilled inside you, of withholding your pleasure and you wonder how he is so _composed_ , how he’s capable of restraining himself from chasing that divine friction that’s promised with the connection of your bodies. 

“Y-You’re the one-- _mmh_ \--who’s teasing now, J.” You shift beneath him, dig your nails into his neck and roll your waist. Your face feels hot, flustered as you glance between your bodies. His hand is still on your stomach, pressing down just slightly and restricting your movements. There’s something undeniably endearing about it, though--he’s not driving into you, choking you or biting you. He’s taking his time, slowly pulling his hips back and pushing forward--It’s borderline lazy, but it feels reminiscent of _loving_ in a way, and you find yourself enraptured with the fluid movement of his body, the way his lean stomach tightens and how his hand is still on your abdomen, firmly holding you down as he gradually finds a tame tempo. 

A soft moan tumbles from your lips, your head tilting back and you see that he’s watching, too. Your heart stutters a beat at that; something so fleeting, a moment among hundreds where your bodies come together in an always salacious embrace and this is the first time you’ve ever seen him so _captivated,_ so absorbed and it’s strange-- _foreign_ and it makes you swell with some confounding brew of adoration and timidness, like you’re waiting for the moment his patience shatters and it’s back to ravenous fucking rather than docile coupling. 

He slices through your reverie with a low grunt and a jarring buck of his hips, breaking apart the smooth glide of his waist with a startling amount of force. You gasp, your hands finding purchase in his hair and he looks visibly stricken; his fair brows are knit, his eyes closed as though shoving down that desire to fuck you harder with a subtle tremor in his movements. In a moment of confounding realization: he’s quite literally _struggling_ to be _gentle_ with you. 

You would take a moment to ponder what brought this out in him, what’s going on in that brilliantly complicated mind of his to coax forward something so completely out of the norm and quite frankly _disconcerting_ , but you were too transfixed on the _now_.

You push his hair from his face, capture it with your hand as you comb through the wild green strands and coax him to open his eyes with a soft whisper of his name. He does, and they’re all black and endless, looking at you with a fire alike to indignation that doesn’t quite reach the mark, placated with lust, with pleasure. Craning your neck, you tug him down and meet him halfway in a kiss that’s a sharp juxtaposition to the controlled glide of his hips. Nearly on contact he pushes his tongue in your mouth and explores the confines with a deep groan, and you can feel him curl his fingers into your stomach as he steels himself and resigns to the self inflicted torture of languidly fucking you. 

You kiss him back with equal fervor, wrap your legs around him and push your heels into the small of his back, beckoning him impossibly close as though you never want this surreal embrace to end. He lowers his torso, brings his forearm beside your head and absently tangles his hand in your hair as he pulls from the kiss to rest his forehead against yours, once more glancing down the now sweat slicked planes of your bodies. His breath billows onto your face with shuddering heat as he smooths his hand from your stomach lower, over your mound to grace your clit with a delicate pressure you didn’t know he could possess. It’s _divine_ , but it’s not _enough_ , and in a passing moment of thought you wonder if you’ve been conditioned to something harder, something more feral and reckless because as _amazing_ as it feels to have his notoriously lethal hands touch you in such a way that’s almost tender, it doesn’t quite hit home. 

Without a second thought, you moan “ _Harder_.” 

You can see see the smile that curves his lips and you can’t help but notice how self-satisfied it looks. You don’t have time to analyze it before he takes your breathless demand and invokes it without a beat of hesitance. He drops his head to your shoulder, hiding that smug smirk with his lips against your neck, giving it a single chaste kiss before he takes the skin between his teeth and bites you. It’s jarring--a flash of pain that waves through the gentle intimacy like a green flag at the starting point of a race; his hips are quick to pick up from their steady canter into in out right piston, thrusting himself between your legs with that reckless abandon you’d grown to love. 

You keen, dig your head into the pillow with a sharp moan as your nails drag against his scalp and _god, he’s deep._ You suddenly remember why you never ask him to be gentle with you, the way his cock stretches and fills you is nearly too much, how he pushes himself as far as he possibly can before pulling back to the point you no longer feel him, only to drive back in with a force that shakes your spine, it’s _everything_ \--all you’ll ever need and the idea of asking him to be gentle seems almost a waste in your mind, not when he has the ability to make you feel like _this_. As though you feed off his newly invigorated lust, you pry your fingers from his hair and scrape them down his back, feeling the coil and tense of muscles as he fucks you hard against the mattress. 

His bite loosens before he licks a stripe up your neck, taking your lobe between his teeth with a low growl. He’s still swirling your clit with an impressive amount of dexterity; languid in comparison to the inexorable back and forth of his hips, and it feels like a tickle in comparison. 

“Mmm...babygirl--can’t ah, _get off_ without a little _pain?_ ” His breath is hot against your neck, voice dropped to a perpetual growl between throaty grunts. That hold of your hair is a tug now, forcing your head further back until your throat feels tight and you give a strangled whine in response. “That’s okay--” He chuckles, but it’s low and twisted “-- _me too.”_

He pulls back, takes advantage of your exposed neck and burrows his face beneath your chin, his teeth sinking into your trachea like a feral animal. You arch, give a high mixture of a moan and a cry that breaks midway through with his insistent tug of your hair. His fingers are rubbing harder against your throbbing clit to the point it’s unbearable and everything hits you at once; like every nerve in your body is an open live wire, pleasure rips through you and you scream, dig your nails into his shoulders until the tension gives way and draws blood, and he keeps going. He fucks you through that level of heightened euphoria with a guttural moan, chases his own release and uses the sensation of your nails leaving crescent lacerations in their wake to bolster his pleasure. 

You cling to him, tighten your legs around his waist and ride out the over-stimulation with a full body shudder. His movements stagger, grow erratic and with a low groan he pushes himself flush with a sense of finality, coming deep inside you with a residual rock of his hips. He pants against your throat, moving his mouth to the hollow between your shoulder and neck and absently nuzzles against the sweat slicked skin there with a contented hum. Loosening his grip on your hair, and you take in a hearty breath and fall limp against the sheets. For a brief moment, you lay together and descend from your highs in a comfortable silence. 

“Was that you proving a point?” You ask, breaking the post climax tranquility with a lilt of amusement. J lifts his head, that vaguely smug smirk once more tugging on his lips as he brushes your hair from your forehead. 

“More ah...satisfying a _curiosity_.” J replies, giving a taunting pump of his brows as he licks his lips. “Go ahead, tell me you aren’t--” He begins, pushing his hips forward and sinking his length deeper, “--a little _masochist_.” 

You moan weakly, sore from his brutal ministrations but there’s no denying that sliver of arousal that accompanies the ache. You blush, knowing full well that it’s the truth--you needed that pain just as much as he needed to give it. Feigning annoyance with a roll of your eyes, you smile. 

“ _Fine_ , fine...but only for you.” You acquiesce, moving to reach for him when he suddenly dips down and plants a messy kiss against the tip of your nose. 

“ _Now_ it’s a _good_ morning.” And how he manages to sound smug and sweet in equal balance is a mystery to you. 


End file.
